I am going to put it out there: Brisbane has some phenomenal writers.
I’ve talked about my habit of developing literary crushes before, right?
For those playing the home game, it means falling hard for a writer and their work- not just because they’re sexy as hell even without the witty turn of phrase (though that happens), but because oh my god I want to curl up with their works and sigh for a while. I want to explore every inch of their writing as often as it takes to understand it, and to find the brushstrokes used to create that thing I’m flailing awkwardly over.
About six months of flailing awe beyond the literary crush is the point where I blurt out in polite conversation that someone is my spirit animal.
It happens far more often than is strictly polite. Mycroft is my spirit animal, Moriarty is my spirit animal (but only when we’re out of coffee), Paul McDermott and Chuck Wendig are the gods of my spirit animal pantheon of oddity, blurting out wisdom and dick jokes as they terrorise the mortals around them. But Peter M. Ball is getting up there, too.
Look at this post, dammit. It’s a thing of beauty. Maybe it’s the use of rocking out cellists, maybe it’s reminding me of that semester of Stylistics at QUT where I sat, overtired and dazed to drunkenness by Craig Bolland’s voice. Craig had a thing for Shklovsky, too.
Go, read a great post by my spirit animal. And let us all promise, here and now, never tell him that I called him that.